


Mechanic

by Thunderfire69



Series: Mechanic [1]
Category: Avengers: Endgame - Fandom, Doctor Strange - Fandom, Iron Man - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Assassin!Tony, Brainwashing, Confusion, F/M, Family Feels, Feels, Fix-It, Gen, HYDRA assassin Tony, HYDRA’s brainwashing, Heavy Angst, Hurt Tony Stark, Hydra (Marvel), Identity Issues, M/M, Memory Loss, Parent Tony Stark, Past Brainwashing, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Plot, Post-Endgame, Recovered Memories, Supreme Family, Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, identity crisis, mention of suicide, so much plot, too much plot? No. Never enough plot.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderfire69/pseuds/Thunderfire69
Summary: “Stephen Strange,” he said as way of introduction, offering Mechanic his hand to shake; this time, he took it.“Mechanic,” he replied, and his target let out a small laugh.“I’d say that’s an odd name, but when you’ve worked with the Avengers, well…” Stephen Strange shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Besides, what’s more odd is what you’re wearing. A mask? Really? And in the colours of Iron Man?”-OR-Tony Stark was brainwashed by HYDRA. His latest missions turn out a little differently than usual.





	Mechanic

He didn’t feel any emotion as he stared down at his handiwork. No anger at the one who lay with blood slowly pooling beneath them. No disgust at the fact that  _ he  _ had snapped the person’s limbs like twigs and caused them to lay at such unnatural angles. No satisfaction as the light slowly died from their eyes.

 

All he did was stand there and stare, like he always did after he made a kill. Looked down at the blood soaked figure that lay broken and bent on the ground. Took in the slashed neck, and the blood that ran freely from the wound there. Watched for the person’s final, dying breath. Noted how unnatural the snapped wrists, dislocated shoulders, broken ankles and destroyed, ruined bones looked.

 

Then he closed his eyes, the way he always did, and sent up a silent prayer. He didn’t know what caused him to do it, what caused him to wish the dead soul’s being into a safe afterlife. He didn’t know who he was, where he’d come from. He didn’t know what he believed and what he didn’t. 

 

His memories were just blank. All he remembered were his kills, and the way their broken bodies looked after he’d finished his job. He didn’t remember his childhood, didn’t even know if he’d had one. He didn’t remember his friends, his family,  _ anything _ . All he knew was his name.

 

Mechanic.

 

It was definitely odd. Different. But it was what they all called him, and so he’d learned to respond. Besides, he found he liked the sound of the word; he wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to warm his heart a little. Made him feel something for once.

 

He turned his back on the body, leaving it where it lay, broken and dead and still and lifeless. He took a few paces away, paused to lean down and scoop up his mask, which had been knocked from his face during their brief fight. He carefully settled it back onto his face, instantly feeling more at ease.

 

His mask wasn’t at all subtle, not designed to help him blend in but instead to make him stand out. It was red, with gold in an almost mouth-like shape. It was made of some sort of metal, and Mechanic had found it to be nearly indestructible. It was interesting, to say the least, but he’d long since learned not to question anything or try to find out more.

 

He was designed to be a loyal soldier, designed to kill, not to grow and learn, and if he did as he was told, life was easy for him. He’d never even come close to losing to, or even being injured by, someone he’d been ordered to kill. Mechanic was efficient, left no evidence, and for that they seemed to praise him.

 

He maintained an easy walk down the road, something of a strut, really. He was always on alert, cautious and ready to react to the smallest of things, but he’d been trained to keep his walk looking relaxed, casual and even somewhat confident. It gave off the air that he was just a regular person, despite his mask and the gun he carried.

 

“Nice work, Mechanic.” The voice was gravelly, the same as always, and the words were the same he heard every time he made a kill. He knew better than to try and say anything in reply, just letting the praise sink in for the few moments before the voice would continue on with his next instructions.

 

“You are not yet done, Mechanic,” came the voice after those few moments, and he felt confusion wash over him for a moment. These words were never spoken to him; he was always given the place to find his transportation back to base to wait for his next mission.

 

“Iron,” the voice began, and he nearly reached up to touch his earpiece before he controlled himself. He was being assigned a second mission, and he would complete it as they asked.

 

“Stark,” the voice continued smoothly, and he, the Mechanic, ignored the panic beginning to rise at him in this break in routine. “Mother. Seventy. Merchant of Death. Shattered. Weapons. Father. Butler. Cook.”

 

“Ready to comply,” he replied automatically, his emotions falling away. All he felt was a strong desire to do as he was told, a desire to follow the voice’s every command.

 

“You have been assigned a new mission.” These were words he was familiar with, and he stood even more rigidly at them, staring straight ahead without seeing, ready to be given a name.

 

“Your new target is Stephen Strange. Information is being sent to you now. Do not fail us, Mechanic.”

 

He lifted his arm without thinking about it, pulling up the small screen that was stored in his light armour there, eyes flickering rapidly over the information that began to appear on the screen. It felt… familiar, but he didn’t let himself dwell on this, concentrating on the facts. Where his target frequented. Where he was most often seen. What he most often did.

 

It wasn’t a lot, until an address popped up. This was the first time they’d given him the place that his target lived, and he wasn’t sure how they’d gotten it, but he wasn’t about to ask. He knew where to go, his target not far from where the one he’d just dealt with was right now. 

 

Mechanic began to walk again, this time with more purpose, deeper into the city of New York. He left the road where the person’s broken body lay, shoving that information from his mind until he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the place again even if he wanted to. He lost himself in the concrete maze that was New York City without losing his bearings, forgetting where he was while also keeping himself on the path to the address he’d been given.

 

He finally arrived in front of it, and double checked the screen that popped from the light armour on his arm; 177A Bleecker Street. He was in the right place, and knowing that his target was so close to him was nearly driving him mad, but he knew better than to let his eagerness to complete this mission cloud his judgement and get the better of his skills.

 

He studied the building carefully, mentally making a map of the windows and easy entrances and exits. He jumped as someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder, and narrowed his eyes at the stranger. The stranger in question was a slightly overweight, overall friendly looking man, but he had a hard glint to his eye that told Mechanic he had seen more than his fair share of tough battles.

 

“Can I help you?” he asked, suspicion written all over his face. “I do live here, you know.”

 

Mechanic stared at him for a moment. “Yes, perhaps you could. Do you know a Stephen Strange?” His voice was muffled by his mask, but it was still clear enough that the stranger could make out the words.

 

“He lives here with me,” the man said, still sounding suspicious but less than he had before. “You sound familiar. Kind of like… well, kind of like Tony, but he’s gone.”

 

Mechanic just stared at him, unblinking. Barely any of what the man had said meant anything to him, aside from the confirmation that Stephen Strange did indeed live here. His target was within his grasp if he proceeded with enough caution.

 

“Do you need to speak with him?” The stranger asked after a moment, sounding slightly uncomfortable. 

 

“Yes,” he replied, emotionless.

 

“I’m Wong,” the man said, offering Mechanic his hand to shake. He didn’t take it, and after a moment Wong withdrew it, looking more disturbed by his behaviour than he had before.

 

“Well, come on in,” Wong said, visibly uncomfortable and disturbed, opening the door with a flourish. “You can wait down here while I go get him.”

 

Mechanic followed him in, ignoring the anxious, uncomfortable glance Wong shot him. He wasn’t here to make friends, he was here to get to his target, and this man seemed to be doing all the hard work for him at this moment. Wong walked off up the stairs, seeming hurried; he probably just wanted to get away from him. 

 

Mechanic took in his surroundings, the odd trinkets and old relics. Some were encased in glass, all looking insanely important, not that he really cared for them. He ended up halfway across the room, leaning casually against a cauldron; he felt an effort to make himself appear non-threatening to his target was the best approach.

 

“You’re  _ seriously  _ leaning on the Cauldron of the Cosmos?” came a voice; Mechanic turned his head, taking in the newcomer, who was taller than he was and distinctly familiar. Something seemed to stir in the depths of his mind, but it slipped away before he could fully grasp it.

 

“Is that what this is?” Mechanic asked, ignoring the man’s attempts to start some type of argument.

 

“Stephen Strange,” he said as way of introduction, offering Mechanic his hand to shake; this time, he took it.

 

“Mechanic,” he replied, and his target let out a small laugh.

 

“I’d say that’s an odd name, but when you’ve worked with the Avengers, well…” Stephen Strange shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Besides, what’s more odd is what you’re wearing. A mask? Really? And in the colours of Iron Man?”

 

A memory exploded into Mechanic’s head, a memory of him screwing the last panel of a red and gold gauntlet into place. The memory was painful, like someone had stabbed him directly through the skull, and he let out a small scream of pain, clutching at his head before the memory faded.

 

“What did you do?” He spat harshly at his target, who simply just stared at him with visible concern.

 

“Why did you come here?” Stephen Strange asked him, his voice sounding… gentler. 

 

“I came here for you,” Mechanic spat, pulling a dagger from its sheath on his left hip, bringing it up swiftly towards his target’s chin, only to be blocked by a glowing gold shield. He stared at it in shock, seeing how it seemed to float there by itself.

 

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Stephen Strange said calmly, and the shield moved slowly downwards, forcing his dagger away from his target’s chin. Mechanic noticed Stephen Strange’s hand was slowly moving down, too, and realisation hit.

 

“You’re creating the shield.”

 

Stephen Strange just inclined his head slightly, and Mechanic let out an animalistic growl. Fighting a sorcerer wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d never failed a mission yet. And if they’d sent him specifically after this target, then they must trust that he could take Stephen Strange down.

 

He lowered his dagger, feigning surrender. Then his hand whipped up over his shoulder to pull free his gun, and he fired at his target in rapid succession. When he finally let up, Stephen Strange was still standing, a bigger shield protecting him completely.

 

Letting out a snarl of frustration, Mechanic darted closer, this time managing to slash his knife across his target’s face. He rolled away before Stephen Strange could retaliate, leaping quickly to his feet to glare at the sorcerer. Blood flowed freely from the gash he’d opened in his target’s forehead, getting into Stephen Strange’s eye.

 

He darted back in again to try and slash at his target’s face once more, but the sorcerer brought up a shield with one hand and smashed it into the side of Mechanic’s face. The first thing he registered was cold air on his face as his mask broke away, shattered into two by the blow. He didn’t feel too upset about that, though; but at his target’s eyes landed on his face, they widened in recognition.

 

“Tony?”

 

Mechanic just stared at him for a moment, pinpricks of pain stabbing into his skull as memories threatened to stir. Then he regained control of himself, and his eyes narrowed.

 

“Who the hell is Tony?”

 

His target’s expression changed in an instant, seeming to drop in visible upset. “This is what happened to Bucky. We can fix this. We can-”

 

“I don’t  _ need  _ fixing,” Mechanic hissed, but his own name didn’t even seem to ring true anymore. The void where his memories should be no longer felt normal; instead it felt like a inky blackness. It felt like he’d had documents, pages of history, and someone had spilled ink over them until all that was left was a black sludge.

 

“We can  _ help  _ you!” His target sounded desperate, and something in his tone resonated in Mechanic; a memory surged forwards, pain stabbing violently into his skull.

 

_ “I’m not trying to  _ hurt  _ you! I’m trying to  _ help _ you!” Stephen Strange stared imploringly at him, taking a step closer. _

 

_ “Well it sure  _ feels  _ like you’re trying to make things worse,” he spat back defensively. _

 

_ “I just want to make you feel normal again!” _

 

_ “Well I’m not going to be normal ever again, am I?” His voice was harsh, and he watched as Stephen Strange flinched. _

 

_ “Just because you lost your arm-” _

 

The memory cut off abruptly, and Mechanic stumbled back, head throbbing with pain. He glanced down at his right arm in horrified wonder, flexing his fingers. It felt real, looked real,  _ seemed  _ real. Then he reached over, and tapped his finger on his hand. Hard.

 

A hollow, metallic echo responded. He stared up at Stephen Strange, his target, the man who had  _ somehow  _ been in his memories, fear and uncertainty flickering over his face.

 

“It’s okay, Tony,” came the soft voice of his target, and for a moment he felt compelled to listen. Then his training resolve kicked back in, and his eyes narrowed threateningly at Stephen Strange.

 

“I’m here to kill you,” he snarled, drawing his dagger again. 

 

“You don’t want that,” Stephen Strange said quietly. “I  _ know  _ you Tony.”

 

“But I  _ don’t _ ,” Mechanic snarled as pinpricks of pain told him more memories were threatening to surface. “I don’t know who I am!”

 

Then he sheathed his dagger, and shouldered his way past his target, who seemed to be doing everything he could to stop him from leaving. He flung open the doors to the place, and stepped out onto the street without so much as a glance back. He disappeared into the crowded streets as quickly as he could, keeping his head down and ignoring the stabs of pain in his skull as he slipped away from 177A Bleecker Street.

  
  


“Iron.” The man stalked in front of Mechanic with a steel cold glare, the same man who gave him directions through his earpiece. “Stark. Mother. Seventy. Merchant of Death. Shattered. Weapons. Father. Butler. Cook.”

 

“Ready to comply,” Mechanic replied instantly, but he didn’t quite feel the same emotionless obedience he normally did after saying those words. He felt like tearing the new mask he’d been given, identical to his old one, clean off of his face. Instead he stood still and to attention, unable to move even if he tried.

 

“You have been assigned a new mission.” There was a snarky, harsh edge to the man’s tone. ““Your new target is Peter Parker. Information is being sent to you now. Do not fail us again, Mechanic.”

 

Mechanic forced back the recognition that threatened to overwhelm him upon hearing the name, forced himself to dip his head in response. Then the man was stepping back, back to open the car door and settle himself inside before it drove away, leaving him to scroll through the information sent to him as rapidly as he usually did.

 

He began to memorise the places his target frequented, taking the information and sifting through it for the important parts. Then he stopped, staring at the two final lines of the information report in disbelief.

 

_ Affiliated with SHIELD and Tony Stark, aka the “Iron Man”. The youngest Avenger yet, at age 17. _

 

They wanted him to kill a  _ kid _ . Furthermore, a kid who might know who he  _ was _ . Stephen Strange, his former target, had called him Tony. Called him Tony as if it was the name he wanted to call him for the rest of his life.

 

And the word Iron Man, the way it was written, like it, too, was a name. And it felt familiar yet foreign, as if it were something that hadn’t been seen or heard of for a long time. 

 

Squaring his shoulders, Mechanic- or was his name Tony? He didn’t know anymore- made his way along the road, walking swiftly through Queens. Again, there was an address, and for this he was grateful.

 

He planned on finding this kid, and asking him what he knew. Maybe, just  _ maybe  _ fulfilling his mission, if Peter Parker proved to be a dead end. He didn’t let himself think of the fact that Stephen Strange could know his new target, didn’t let himself think of seeing the sorcerer again.

 

The apartment where his new target lived wasn’t far from where he had been dropped, and it was easy to scale the side of the building and make his way in through one of the windows. From there, he crept through the apartment, trying to gauge who was home.

 

He soon realised that Peter Parker was the only one there, and could have punched the air in excitement, because this was exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t sure he could deal with anyone else finding him. He carefully made his way to the room where his target was, which he guessed was his bedroom, and lightly knocked.

 

“May?” came a voice from inside, and an unexpected rush of affection filled Mechanic before he tampered it down, unsure as to  _ why  _ he felt so strongly about this… kid.

 

“No,” he replied, his voice emotionless as usual. There was silence for a moment before the door opened to reveal a kid who was only slightly shorter than he was, with messy light brown hair, wide, almost terrified chocolate eyes and a textbook grasped loosely in one hand.

 

“Who are you?” Peter Parker asked, his voice raised a little in fear.

 

“Relax, kid,” he said, then reached up with a hand to remove his mask.

 

“Mr Stark?” His target’s eyes filled with tears, and he took a step back, as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “But… you died! After Thanos… and your new arm… the media… you killed yourself.”

 

The words arose more memories in him. He clutched at his head as pain began to stab into his skull again; dimly he realised he was resisting the memories, fighting against them, not wanting them to be true, and he surrendered himself to them, feeling the pain fade as he stopped fighting.

 

_ “I… am… Iron Man.” The words tumbled from his lips between his gasps for breath; then he snapped his fingers, and the army was fading to dust, gone, gone, gone.  _

 

_ And then suddenly he was sitting up in a hospital, a little girl sitting beside him as he stared over at the newcomer, who was none other than Stephen Strange. _

 

_ “She died for me?” he asked, his voice coming out small. _

 

_ “It was the only way to save you. A soul for a soul.” _

 

_ Then that memory was gone and he was standing in his lab, tinkering with a bionic arm and cursing the Wakandan tech.  _

 

_ “Goddamn Thanos and losing my arm and needing this thing,” he hissed under his breath as he continued to work, struggling with only the use of one arm. _

 

_ And then another memory took its place, this one of him alone in his lab later at night. He twirled a knife in between his fingers idly, and then a loud crash came from behind him. He began to turn, then something smashed into the back of his head and inky blackness overwhelmed him. _

 

He sat up with a gasp, having fallen to the floor during the memories. Peter Parker, his target- no, his  _ kid _ \- was beside him, frantically trying to check if he was okay. Mechanic- no.  _ Tony. _ Tony struggled for breath, the memories overwhelming and too much to handle all at once.

 

“Mr Stark?” Peter’s voice was filled with fear. “Are you okay? Do I need to call Mr Doctor Strange?”

 

“I’m fine,” he rasped, but he reached towards Peter. The kid, bless his soul, seemed to understand, and flung himself at Tony in a hug. He brought up his arms to hold Peter there, feeling the familiar protective affection for his kid wash over him.

 

“Morgan. Is she…?”

 

“Happy’s been taking care of her,” Peter replied, voice muffled because of the way his face was pressed into Tony’s shoulder.

 

“Rhodey? Bruce?”

 

“Both fine,” the kid said, and Tony relaxed.

 

“Sorry for being gone so long, kid,” he said quietly. “They- they had a pretty good hold over me.”

 

“HYDRA,” came a new voice, one Tony recognised to be the voice of Stephen Strange. “HYDRA had a hold over you, Tony. But don’t worry about it. Since what happened with Bucky, SHIELD knows how to help you.”

 

Tony looked up at the sorcerer, and smiled slightly. “That’s… good.”

 

“What do you remember?” Stephen asked, his voice taking on a desperate edge. “Do you remember anything about… about me?”

 

Tony stared at him blankly. “I remember… an argument. Over the bionic arm. And you… told me Pepper was dead. But… everything else is blank.”

 

Stephen looked upset, and Tony instantly didn’t like the expression that had settled over the sorcerer’s face. He wanted it gone- for good.

 

“Maybe if you introduce yourself to me I… might remember.”

 

Stephen smiled slightly at this. “Alright. Hey, I’m Stephen Strange, your boyfriend.”

 

And at those words, memories exploded in Tony’s head.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I plan on making a sequel to this. Yes, I’m aware I’ve said that on other things and forgotten to continue them, but with this one I do actually have an overarching story plot and some more ideas...
> 
> Thanks to the IronStrange server with some help for plot related stuff, especially Nix for the assassin name for Tony and for the trigger words!


End file.
